


you don't belong here

by tinuviel_tinuviel



Category: The Ascendance Trilogy - Jennifer A. Nielsen
Genre: So here we are, and ALSO imogen deserves better, and jaron needs to work through his trust issues asap, i was rereading the runaway king and i just love the pirate aesthetic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinuviel_tinuviel/pseuds/tinuviel_tinuviel
Summary: “I need to talk to Devlin!” I said, spitting dirt from my mouth as I lifted my head to glare at Agor. My hands were bound behind my back, tightly enough that it would take a good minute or two unobserved before I would be able to free myself.“You’re too late for that, boy,” Agor said. “Devlin’s dead.”
Relationships: at the moment? imogen/piracy
Comments: 20
Kudos: 16





	1. the pirate king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarblade Bay, Avenia.

As pirates slunk around corners and out of darkened doorways, forming a ragged circle around us, I patted Mystic’s neck, as much for my benefit as hers. The men and women of Tarblade Bay weren’t the nicest-looking lot of outlaws I’d met— nor the cleanest, I thought, gagging as the smell of sweat and rancid breath hit me. One man stepped forward, lifting his chin in recognition.

“Erick, my friend,” he said, catching the reins of the thief’s horse. “How long has it been?”

“Too long, Agor. Too long.” Erick put on a more convincing display of joviality than Agor, but even his voice sounded strained. He jerked a finger over his shoulder. “This is Fink, an errand boy of mine. And this is a new member of my family: Sage.”

There was no mistaking the wave of whispers that passed through the crowd at my name. At a hand signal from Agor, a young pirate peeled off from the crowd and trotted towards the half-hidden barracks. I didn’t like that at all. “Why have you come?” Agor asked, eyeing me.

“To talk to Devlin,” I said, before Erick could answer. “I have a proposal for him.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Agor nodded and I was pulled from my horse with a yelp. I struck out at my assailants, but within seconds four pirates had pinned me down, face in the dirt.

“What’d he do?” Fink asked shrilly.

“I need to talk to Devlin!” I said, spitting dirt from my mouth as I lifted my head to glare at Agor. My hands were bound behind my back, tightly enough that it would take a good minute or two unobserved before I would be able to free myself.

“You’re too late for that, boy,” Agor said. “Devlin’s dead.”

I only knew of one person who could have beat Devlin and set the pirates on watch for the name Sage. So Roden was the pirate king. My plan had suddenly become a lot more complicated. I was strong-armed toward one of the buildings. I could hear Erick’s half-hearted protests in the background. A nice gesture, if stupid: he’d be better off distancing himself from me.

Then one of my captors opened a metal-reinforced door and yanked me into a dark room. “I hope you’re noting my good behavior,” I said, resisting the urge to kick out as a manacle clicked into place around my ankle. Unfortunately, this didn’t seem to be the time to put up a fight. The pirates shuffled out and I blinked, my eyes adjusting slowly to the dark. “So when do I get to talk to Roden?”

One of the pirates sniggered. “Now,” she said, and pulled the door shut.

That was when I saw the second prisoner: a broad-shouldered boy with a matching chain around his legs, attaching him to the wall. That didn’t stop him from lunging at me. I jumped out of the way, only for my manacle to yank me back. I slammed to the ground, bruising my chin on the stone floor. Roden’s fingers stopped short a foot from me as I rolled back, panting, against the wall. “Sage,” he snarled.

“What are you doing here?!” I asked. He yanked at the chain that held him fast. He was seething, teeth bared, but looked mostly unharmed– other than a few mottled bruises on his arm and a cut on his lip. “I thought you had become pirate king!”

“And I thought you were king of Carthya,” he said, swiping his sleeve across his bleeding lip. “And yet here we both are.”

“But they said that Devlin was killed!” I had given a little thought to what I would tell him when we came face to face, to how I might persuade him to switch loyalties and aid Carthya. But all those words had fled with my shock. “Who else could kill him?”

“The devils are taunting me,” Roden growled.

“Roden,” I said. “Who put you here? You’re the best swordsman I’ve met.”

Roden snorted. He seemed to have accepted that as long as I stayed pressed against the far wall, I was out of his reach. He sat against the wall, staring at me balefully. “That’s not what Mott said. Or have you forgotten everything you learned in Farthenwood?”

“Mott knew you were incredible,” I said. My head hurt— from my fall, from puzzling through Roden’s terse answers. I hoped Erick and Fink would be alright. I was starting to think I was past helping. “He said that while he was at Farthenwood he trained three of the finest swordsmen Carthya has seen. Remember? Tobias spit out his tea in surprise— he was still covered in bruises from tripping during practice.” Roden leaned his head back smugly. He remembered. But he still hadn’t answered my burning question, and my anxiety grew with every sound of approaching feet. He clung to his silence like an anchor, happy to drown if he took me down with him. “Roden, _please_. Whoever the king is, he put you in prison! The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? If you answer me, I swear I’ll get you out of here. That’s a better offer than anyone else will give you.” He pursed his lips. I groaned. “It looks like I’m not the one who’s forgotten our lessons from Farthenwood, you–”

“Mott wasn’t talking about Tobias, alright?” Roden snapped. I almost melted with relief at his grudging cooperation.

“What?”

“The third swordsman he taught,” Roden said. “He was talking about—”

He was interrupted by the door opening. Two pirates came in, flanking the entrance, and then Gregor strode in. Gregor, my captain of the guard, grey-haired and sour-faced as ever. So he was the traitor. My gut twisted.

“King Jaron,” he said, his lip curling.

“Greg,” I said, making a face. “What a nauseating surprise.” But something still didn’t add up. Gregor had never been to Farthenwood. Although he seemed to be on good terms with the pirates that sidled aside to let him past, his wrist lacked the tattoo that marked theirs. Roden’s gaze shifted to someone behind Gregor.

“Hail the pirate king,” Gregor said softly, his eyes fixed on mine. And then a girl walked in, her dark hair cut sharply to her chin, a curved sword at her waist, her sleeves pushed back to reveal golden bangles and the pirate’s brand. It was Imogen.


	2. the bitter cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarblade Bay, Avenia.

The room went silent when Imogen’s eyes locked on mine— or maybe I just stopped processing sounds. Shock had emptied my lungs like a knee to the chest. There wasn’t enough air in the whole room for me to draw breath as her gaze scraped across my body.

(The once-over was familiar: she was searching me for injuries. She had done so many times before, with frustration and fondness mixed on her face. This time, the fondness was gone.)

The corners of her lips twisted downward. “King Jaron.”

“That’s him?” asked a gray-haired woman beside her.

“Oh, it’s him. I would recognize that face anywhere.”

I finally found my voice. “Imogen, what are you doing here?”

“If His Highness addresses me by any name other than ‘king’, you may run him through, Malina,” she told the woman beside her. Roden snickered. Imogen’s icy gaze jumped to him and the sound died. “The same applies to our other prisoner.” Gregor cleared his throat softly and her fingers closed around the hilt of the sword at her hip. “ _All_ of our prisoners, in fact,” she said impatiently, rounding on Gregor. “Captain, do you have something valuable to say for once or are you just testing my patience? I warn you, it’s short.”

Wait. Gregor was a prisoner too. Which meant, not necessarily a traitor. Which meant, I thought, my heart lifting, a potential ally. But he had made himself cozy with the pirates, to the point of roaming freely— unless his hands weren’t just folded respectfully behind his back, but tied. Why was he even here? His lips tightened at Imogen’s sharp tone. The sight was absurd, and almost, _almost_ funny. Gregor, captain of the guard of Carthya, ducking his head in reluctant deference to Imogen. King of the pirates. This couldn’t be real.

“My king,” he said. “The conditions may have changed, I admit. But I beg you to remain open for negotiation.” What had he offered her? What did Imogen even _want?_ My head ached. Oh, the devils were having their fun with me now.

“I could just kill him now,” the gray-haired pirate offered, with a sharp-toothed smile. Gregor blanched. “Make a nice little example.”

“Kill them both,” Roden suggested.

“The pirates swore to kill the king of Carthya,” said a second pirate. “It’s a matter of honor.”

“A matter of Devlin’s honor,” Malina said. “Do you want to go take it up with him?”

“Devlin’s honor is all of our honor,” Roden shot back, rising onto his knees. His chains pulled him back.

“Remember your position, mutineer,” Malina said.

“My king,” Gregor said desperately, raising his voice over the quarrel. “If you let me send word to Drylliad—”

“Everyone shut up!” Imogen’s eyes blazed. The noise died immediately. She squared her shoulders. “Take the captain to the root cellar and lock up the mutineer with Erick and his boy. In thirty seconds, King Jaron should be the only one in this cell beside me.”

I wasn’t at all sure I wanted that. Roden’s chains were rapidly unlocked. “Maybe Gregor should stay,” I suggested, my voice high-pitched. I would take any chance of an alliance now.

“Coward!” Roden spat on the ground as he was dragged out, earning him a kick in the calves.

I grimaced. “As it sounds like you’ve already started negotiations— guh—” The tip of Malina’s sword pressed against my throat and I choked on my words.

“Address her as king.”

“Malina. Out,” Imogen ordered. As a pirate caught Gregor’s elbow and spun him toward the door, my suspicions were confirmed: his hands were tied behind his back with knotted rope. Malina sheathed her sword, bowed, and exited. The door clanged shut behind her. The sound echoed through the suddenly quiet cell.

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I pulled myself upright, now that there was no threat of attack from Roden. The rusting chains pulled at my wrists as I folded my hands in my lap. Imogen stood motionless, with light from the barred window catching in the uneven strands of hair that drifted around her chin. A dozen emotions churned in my gut— fear, confusion, fading shock, rising anger. This wasn’t the same Imogen I thought I knew, I reminded myself. I had to tread carefully.

But my sense of self-preservation buckled under the growing weight of my anger, and I had never been as good as Imogen at holding my tongue. “I don’t understand what’s going on,” I said, striving to keep my tone even. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer.

“How long have you been working for the pirates? While you lived in the palace? While we were in Farthenwood?”

She tipped her chin up, expression inscrutable. “Why do you care?”

“Are you kidding?” I rattled my manacles. “Because I want to know if you decided to join the pirates despite finding out they wanted to _kill_ me, or because of it.”

“There you go,” she said. “This isn’t about you. I was trying to get away from you. I thought, surely, this is the one place he wouldn’t be stupid enough to come.” She couldn’t hide the venom in her last words. True or not, the words were meant to hurt, and they did. But the spark of anger in her voice brought a vicious sort of relief. Anger, at least, I could understand.

“And the whole assassination thing didn’t give you pause?” I demanded.

“Why would it?” she said. Her knuckles were white on the hilt of her sword. (Her earlier threats still rang in my ears. I had a vivid image of myself, pinned to the wall like a skewered moth, with blood spreading through my tunic. I needed to tread carefully.) “Because we’re friends? Because you care about me, and want me around? Oh. Wait. No, I think you had something to say about that last time we saw each other.”

I felt a stab of guilt as I remembered what I had said to convince her to leave the castle. It had been for her protection. I resented her bringing it up now, trying to distract me from the matter at hand, reminding me of something I would much rather forget. I had said some cruel things, I knew. But that was a far cry from siding with _assassins._ “You know I didn’t mean that.”

“On the contrary,” she said coldly, “you were _very_ convincing.”

“So this is about me,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“You’re not listening to me!” Her bracelets glittered and clinked as she jabbed an accusatory finger towards me. (I had never seen her wear jewelry before. I had tried to give her a necklace, once, soon after she came to court. She refused it.) “You can’t think about other people for one second. It’s all what does this mean for you, how will this help you win, how are you going to show off how clever and brave you are while everyone else is just— just swept into the corner to collect cobwebs.”

“I did it to protect you,” I said. “I thought Roden would target you next.”

“Why would he do that? He knew I could gut him like a fish!”

“Well, I didn’t know that!” We were both too loud now. Imogen’s sword was out, the tip weaving to punctuate her words, while I strained against my chains. My guilt was becoming harder and harder to ignore. (She knew me too well. If she saw a flicker of regret, she would pounce.) “Since you never saw it fit to tell me you were a master swordsman.”

“Do you really want to make this about things we didn’t tell each other?” she snapped. “Face it. You refuse to trust people that you claim to care for, you would rather be cruel than vulnerable, and it’s finally come back to bite you.”

My cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear?” I snapped. “I was stupid, and I shouldn’t have said those things, and I’m sorry.”

“Except you’re only sorry because it got you into trouble,” she said.

“What do you want me to say? And don’t you try to take the moral high ground while you have me chained up with a sword at my throat!”

“I’m not going to attack an unarmed _child.”_

I couldn’t let the insult slide. “You realize that you’re a child, too.”

“I am a king,” she hissed. “And unlike you, I earned my crown.”

“I have done everything—”

“Look at you,” she said. “You ran away from Carthya. You deceived your regents. What if you had found Devlin, and he recognized you? He would have tortured you until you gave up every secret you knew, and then killed you. You are a danger to your country and to yourself.” Her words hit like physical blows, leaving me gasping. My eyes burned.

“Enough.”

“I’m not done,” she snarled. “You risk your life on idiotic schemes and you make enemies of your only friends. Because we were friends. Whatever you say, we _were_ friends, and I cared for you, and when you sent me away it hurt like you had carved my chest open, and I hated you. And the only way I thought I would find any peace was to get away from you, and then here you came.”

“Imogen, enough!”

“I told you not to call me that!”

“Or what?” My chest heaved. “You’ll kill me? Do it. If my life is really so worthless.” In an instant, her sword swung up, poised over my pounding pulse. I lifted my chin, bracing myself for a biting pain. Her brow was knotted, her shirt soaked with sweat. Her sword hand shook.

Then she lowered her blade, stepping back. “You just don’t understand.” Step, step— she retreated, shaking her head. “You can’t understand the position you’ve put me in.” Step, step— her back hit the opposite wall and she slid down until she was sitting, her cutlass clattering to the ground beside her. Her expression was suddenly, unbearably weary.

The fire had died in both of us. “Tell me,” I said softly.

“I can’t.”

Neither one of us spoke for some time. I had the strangest feeling of seeing her for the first time. Her cheek bore the shadow of a bruise. Damp strands of hair clung to her neck, twisting like roots. I imagined brushing it back, tucking it behind her ear.

“I don’t suppose you could let me go,” I said. “I won’t come back.”

She shook her head. “Too many of my pirates see your life as a blight on their honor— the one mark that Devlin couldn’t kill. I wouldn’t survive another mutiny— and for Carthya’s sake and mine, I need to remain king.”

“I understand.”

She stood. “Well, I think I know what has to be done.” I took some consolation in her pained expression: she didn’t seem to take pleasure in the thought of my impending death.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to my first mate, and Gregor. See if they can change my mind.”

My heart caught in my throat. “And if not?”

She had the grace to meet my eye. “I’m sorry it ended up like this.”

She returned late that night, or maybe early the next morning. I would never be sure which. Her expression was tight, pained. I didn’t need to ask if there was good news. She knelt in front of me, holding a mug of some dark liquid.

“Would you die for Carthya?” she asked.

“If I have to.”

She held out the mug. “I thought… this would be gentler than a sword.”

I caught a bitter whiff as I took it. Poisoned. Ironic that, in the end, I would die the same way as the rest of my family. What would Darius have thought of this? Would he have done the same? No, I knew— he wouldn’t have come here.

“Are you ready to hear my last words? I spent a long time thinking of them,” I said conversationally, swirling the mug.

“Oh?”

“‘Better to die a king than to live a coward’,” I said, and took a gulp of the poisoned drink.

“Hmm. I was hoping there would be an apology in there somewhere,” she said. I opened my mouth to respond, but she pressed a finger to my lips. “No, those were good. Don’t ruin your last words.” My fingertips were turning cold. I took another sip. “Listen, we both did what we thought we had to. Don’t look back. I won’t.”

My hands were numb, and my head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. “I really am sorry for what I said,” I mumbled. I took one more sip, then tried to set the mug down gently. It slipped from my grasp, spilling across the packed earth floor. A moment later, I slid to the ground beside it.


	3. unwelcome counsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drylliad, Carthya. Four years later.

“By the time I was allowed to see him, he had gone still, his skin colorless,” Gregor said. His voice was stiff with grief. “It was too late, I thought. She had killed him. I had begged and pleaded and bargained for so long, all in vain. His thoughtlessness had cost him his life, and Carthya its beloved king.”

“And then he saw me breathe,” I muttered.

“And then I saw him breathe,” Gregor said. I groaned quietly. Under the table, Amarinda’s hand found mine, and she squeezed my fingers.

“They’ve all heard this before,” I whispered.

“Shh,” she murmured. I slouched in my seat, my gaze wandering around the council room as Gregor’s voice faded to a drone in my ears. Based on the glazed looks of the gathered regents, I wasn’t the only one tired of hearing the epic tale of Jaron’s massive failure and Gregor’s heroic rescue. Gregor was not a very inventive storyteller.

Fortunately for him, that wasn’t a requirement for stewardship. And unfortunately for me, since he was appointed steward four years ago, the convening and adjourning of council meetings were up to him. Which meant I could be here listening to him for quite some time.

Imogen hadn’t poisoned me. The bitter drink was only a sleeping draft, to keep me from figuring out her ruse until it was too late. She made a deal with Gregor to secure a literal king’s ransom from Carthya’s coffers. In exchange, we were given safe passage back to Carthya. It turned out quite neatly for the two of them: she had enough gold to satisfy even the most vengeful pirates, and he had rule of Carthya. There was no hesitation from the regents when they voted: I wasn’t fit to be king. I probably would have voted the same way in their place.

The creak of the door brought me back to the present. Nura, the newest captain of the guard, entered quietly. Gregor paused, his story, arching an eyebrow. He’d had trouble finding a suitable successor to his old position, and his irritation at this interruption didn’t bode well for Nura’s continuing employment. “Captain?”

“My lord, I need a word with you.”

“A council meeting is in progress.”

“I understand, my lord,” she said steadily. “The matter is urgent.”

He ran his fingers through his graying hair. _The meeting is adjourned. The meeting is adjourned_ , I chanted in my head. “Very well. The meeting is adjourned.”

“Finally,” I mumbled, earning another squeeze from Amarinda. I remembered to offer her my elbow before we emerged into the cool air of the palace corridor. Behind us, Nura and Gregor spoke in low voices.

“To your chambers?” I asked.

“The library,” she corrected, nudging me in the right direction. We didn’t speak as we walked down the halls. I couldn’t ignore the long stretches of newly blank walls. Amarinda had taken charge of raising money for my ransom so it wouldn’t have to be taxed from Carthya’s poor. Tapestries and paintings from my childhood, as familiar as my parents’ faces, disappeared into the houses of nobles across the continent.

Tobias was waiting for us on a sunlit couch in the library. I caught a glimpse of botanical sketches before he closed his book, straightening to attention. “How was the council meeting?”

“Terrible,” I said, dropping onto the couch beside him. He jumped up and motioned for Amarinda to take his spot, dragging over a stool for himself.

“Gregor went into his pirate king monologue again,” Amarinda explained. Tobias made a sympathetic face.

“I don’t know why he has to whip it out over and over,” I said, leaning back. “It’s been four years! We all know what happened!”

Amarinda exchanged a look with Tobias. “That’s a good question. Why don’t you like to hear the story?”

“Because it makes me look stupid, for one thing,” I said. “And I don’t need any help with that. And the way he tells it makes it sound like he single-handedly beat Imogen away from my bleeding body. He offered her a massive bribe. That’s all.”

“How might that affect the regents’ perception of him?”

I pulled a knobby pillow into my lap and frowned at it. Amarinda was doing this more and more recently: trying to coax me towards political awareness with a trail of leading questions. It was helpful, like her reminders to behave at council meetings. It was also just a little condescending. “Well, it makes him look smarter and more capable. It reminds them of why they put him in charge.”

“And how does that help him? Why might he feel the need to reinforce his authority?” she asked. I racked my brains. “Can you think of any upcoming events…?”

I sat up, sending the throw pillow tumbling to the ground. “My coming of age!”

“That’s my thought,” Amarinda said, using her toe to pull the pillow back into arm’s reach and tucking it behind my back.

“What does he think he’s going to accomplish? Stop me from turning twenty?”

Tobias lifted a finger. “Actually, the regents could vote to postpone your coronation if they feel that you still aren’t ready. Amarinda, if I could reach past you...” She leaned aside to let him retrieve one of the books stacked on a table beside the couch. Flipping it open, he pulled a sheet of notes from between the pages. “Reassuming the throne when you come of age was expected, but the deadline was mostly arbitrary. There’s nothing that says the regents couldn’t keep a steward until you were twenty-two, or twenty-four, or even longer.”

“Why wouldn’t anyone tell me that sooner?” I demanded.

“It’s a long shot,” Amarinda said. “The regents are warming to you, and you’re popular with the people— especially since you started your public audiences to hear grievances and mediate disagreements. It’s a kingly thing to do.”

“Well, I’m glad someone appreciates it,” I said flatly. “Gregor says it’s a waste of time and a security threat to boot, letting so many people into the palace every fortnight.”

“Might Gregor have his own reasons to discourage you?” she asked delicately.

“I get it, I get it,” I said, lifting my hands. “I need to be more suspicious of people’s motives. I don’t want to stop holding the audiences. I’m just—” I sighed. “I’m nervous, I guess.” I remembered clearly being thirteen years old and knowing I could do anything. I didn’t know when this doubt had seeped into me, only that it had grown worse lately. I wanted to ascend the throne and carry on my family’s legacy, but some nights I couldn’t sleep for the fear that I would ruin it all. Coming of age. The coronation. The wedding.

Amarinda took my hand, offering a soft smile. “It’s alright to be nervous, Jaron. But we’ll get through this together. You know I’m on your side.”

“I know,” I said. After a moment’s hesitation, I lifted our intertwined hands to my lips and pressed a kiss to her skin. We were getting good at this: cultivating the warmth we would need to make marriage pleasant. I was determined to be a good husband to her. It was the least I could do to repay her for the endless patience and wisdom she had shared with me.

“I need to go,” Tobias said, startling me. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “To, uh, tell Mott you’re done with the council meeting. He had something to tell you.” By the end of the sentence he sounded almost convinced, but Amarinda grabbed his sleeve and I threw out a leg to block his exit.

“No, no, stay here,” I said, laughing. “We won’t do anything else embarrassing, I promise.” His ears were pink; this was a frequent reaction when Amarinda and I displayed affection in front of him. “Mott will find us soon enough.”

As if on cue, Mott appeared in the doorway. “There you are, Jaron,” he said. “And Amarinda, what a pleasure.”

“I assume the ‘what a pleasure’ part applies to both of us,” I said, grinning. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t contradict me. “Tobias said you had news?”

“I was talking to Nura,” he said, joining us in the patch of evening sunlight streaming through one of the library windows. “Sharp as a tack, that one. She’s been suspicious of covert activities in the city since she was appointed captain of the guard.”

“She interrupted the council meeting today,” Amarinda said. “But we didn’t hear what she had to say.”

“No, I didn’t think so. Gregor hasn’t acted on her concerns, that I know of, and she seemed wary to share them even with me. But I suspect that there’ll be more disruptions as your coronation approaches.”

“Cheerful thought,” I said. “Is that all?” Mott’s mouth clamped shut. I was immediately suspicious. “There is. Does Nura know who’s causing trouble?”

He looked relieved. “No, not that she shared with me.”

“But there is something else,” I said, tilting my head.

“It’s nothing,” Tobias said quickly.

“Oh, so you know it!” I said, rounding on him. “That makes this easier. Is it about one of my regents?” I inspected his expression. He glanced nervously at Amarinda. “No… the coronation? The wedding? Hmm. Avenia? Ooh. Vargan? Trouble on the border— no. The coast? Pirates? Are they raiding Carthya again? Or is it— you’ve heard news of Imogen.” His eyes flickered wider and I knew I’d guessed it. “Come on, Mott. You don’t have to act like I’m going to shatter if you say Imogen’s name.”

“I guess we’re just going to pretend the screaming fits never happened,” Mott said drily.

I wrinkled my nose. “That was twice. And also a long time ago. Also, do you realize that when I’m king you’re going to have to be respectful occasionally? I’ll settle for once or twice a month.”

“Duly noted,” Mott said.

“So what did you hear about Imogen?” I asked.

Mott sighed. “I received reports that she was involved in a raid in Gelyn.”

“That’s good news,” Amarinda said. “Isn’t it? She’s far away now.”

“Yeah,” I said. She was alive, and wealthy, and very far away. Good for her. “Great news.”

“And chances are she won’t be anywhere near here in time for the coronation, so that’s one less thing to worry about,” Tobias said. I didn’t care what Imogen was up to. I had let go of our unfinished business long ago. Laid it to rest, sunk it in the sea, buried it beneath years of life without her. My nails dug into my palms.

“Excellent! Thanks for the update, Mott,” I said, forcing a smile. “Now, Tobias was just telling me something interesting about the rules of Gregor’s stewardship.”


	4. the raid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brusvik, Gelyn.

Night had fallen over the port city of Brusvik, but in the distance flames leapt along the docks as a girl sprinted down a dark and empty street. Reaching an imposing stone house, she pounded on the door. “Pirates! The pirates are coming, let me in!” There was no answer. She pulled at the shutters and then kicked them in frustration, skidding around the corner and scrambling over the wall into an herb garden. Heedless of the beds of mint and sweet-smelling chamomile she trampled beneath her feet, she threw herself against the servant’s door. “Let me in!” The street was eerily quiet besides the thud of her frantic fist on the door, but she could hear the sound of fighting sweeping in from the harbor. “Please, is there anyone there?”

The door opened to reveal a wide-eyed stable boy, who pulled her in and immediately rebolted the door, then turned on her. “Are you daft? You’re one of the scullery girls, aren’t you?” She nodded, breathing hard. “What were you doing out?”

“I was hiding in the market.” Looking haunted, she pulled her ragged shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I was so afraid that they would catch me.”

“You’re lucky I heard you, Matron said all the maids were in. The magistrate’s holed up in his strong room with all his loot,” said the stable boy, with a scoff that showed exactly how little he thought of the magistrate and his wealth, “but most of the help is sheltering in the dining hall. We barricaded all the—” he fell silent as they heard a cry go up from the street outside, like the whooping of wild dogs.

“It’s them,” the girl whispered, gaze fixed on the pile of furniture the retreating servants had thrown in front of the door.

“Come on,” the boy says, pulling at her arm, but she shook him off, approaching the door. “What are you doing?” he demanded. She tipped an overturned armchair from the top with a  _ thud _ and then threw her shoulder against a couch, shifting it back a few inches before he collided with her, knocking her to the ground. Rolling like a cat, she was upright in a second. The fear that had marked her expression a few seconds ago had vanished. The stable boy grabbed at her shawl and it came free, revealing ink designs spilling from beneath her sleeves. Seabirds, skulls, sharp-horned crescent moons— and by her wrist, a simple X burned into her skin. The boy’s skin went pale.  _ “Pirate,” _ he whispered, and then she struck him so hard in the gut that he collapsed, wheezing. She dismantled the barricade quickly and unbolted the door. “Don’t,” the boy begged.

She flashed him a sharp smile. “Sorry about this,” she said, and threw the doors open. Pirates poured in. A gray-haired woman made a beeline for the girl, offering her a curved sword with a quick bow of her head.

“King Imogen.” The pirate king took the sword gladly. “Any problems?”

“None, thanks,” Imogen said. “Tie up the boy but don’t hurt him, Zev,” she called to a young man who had the stable boy, who looked like he might faint, at spearpoint. “The help is in the dining hall, that way. I want a dozen of you to make sure they stay there. Alvi, pick three others to help you keep watch for coming help. Everyone else, to me.”

“Don’t forget that Serena asked to lead the capture,” Malina reminded her in a low voice as the crowd divided themselves between tasks.

“I haven’t forgotten, you old nag,” Imogen said affectionately. “Serena, we’re at your command. Strike quickly, strike hard.”

The other girl nodded sharply, lifting a torch. “Follow me!” she called. The bulk of the group followed her lead, deeper into the magistrate’s mansion. Imogen brought up the rear. Most of the pirates on this raid were by the harbor, smashing through the homes of wealthy Gelynian merchants, but if her sources were correct, the magistrate had a side-trade in rare perfumes and poisons, which he kept hidden in his own home. At Serena’s direction, the procession fanned out, searching side rooms and studies. A cry went up when the metal-reinforced door of the strongroom was found.

Serena passed off her torch and pounded her fist against the door. “On the authority of the pirate king, I offer you the chance to surrender and open the door immediately.”

Imogen nodded approvingly. Always worth a try.

“Go to hell!” The response was muffled by the door but the fury in the speaker’s voice was unmistakable. “And take your bastard of a king with you!”

That was a good enough signal as any. They dragged a statue, presumably of the magistrate himself, from the next room and hoisted it to shoulder-height to use as a battering ram. “Heave!” shouted Serena, and the house echoed with the thunderous impact of stone on metal and hardwood. Splinters flew. With each blow, the door shuddered. Serena interspersed her orders with shouts of encouragement and taunts directed to whoever was holed up in the strongroom, although they didn’t waste their breath with responses; they were probably bracing the door with all their strength. Scarcely a quarter hour had passed since they burst into the house, and with the city guard tied up at the docks it should be a clean victory.

Still, concern prickled at Imogen’s senses. She had served enough time in fine houses to have an instinctive grasp of their layouts— a sense of which narrow stairways led to servants quarters and which to root cellars, whether the carpet was worn in a way that led to an oft-used parlor or an isolated study, if the lamps indicated a nurse’s bedroom or a lady’s. Farthenwood had no strongroom (although she was sure it held dozens of secrets it never yielded to her), but there was something about the magistrate’s mansion that reminded her of Lord Conner’s manor. Conner would never have let himself be trapped in the heart of his house without an escape. Her concern thickened into suspicion. Serena had this assault under control; she wouldn’t be missed if she left to investigate. Slipping into a side room, she unbolted the shutters and climbed out into the garden once more.

The night air was warm and a humid wind blew in from the sea. Imogen had known her fair share of powerful men— paranoid, selfish, determined to save their own skins. She was willing to bet all the rare perfumes in the magistrate’s strongroom that he had built himself an escape route. The trick was to find the exit. Grateful for the rustling breeze that hid the sound of her footfalls, Imogen crept between the drooping trees and twisting hedges of the magistrate’s garden, moonlight dappling her tunic and tattooed arms as she slowly circled the mansion.

_ There. _ Dark in dark shadows, she saw human movement. Imogen dropped to her knees, pushing her cutlass through the back of her belt like Malina had told her many times not to, and crawled forward. A stout man— the magistrate, she guessed, by the richness of his robes— crouched at the edge of a pit, straining to lift a silver-plated chest from the earth. Trying to make off with his treasure.  _ My treasure now, _ she thought, with a touch of triumph. She started when he spoke.

“Hurry, you oaf,” he snapped, and a pair of hands appeared beneath the chest. A moment later, a second man emerged from the tunnel, with another chest tucked under his arm. “Marcos, is that the last one in there?”

“Second to last, sir,” grunted a third voice, from within the tunnel. The magistrate twisted his rings nervously, looking from the stack of chests at his feet to the house, just over her head. Imogen stayed stock-still, screened from sight behind a fragrant bank of roses. This was more enemies than she’d bargained for. She could have beat the magistrate half-blind with a broken leg, and she liked her chances against the magistrate and one guard, but fighting three men at once was pushing her luck. The magistrate huffed impatiently as the third man clambered from the pit. “Now, where did your other friend go?”

Imogen understood a moment too late. An almost inaudible inhale behind her was the only warning she got before the fourth man attacked.

She threw herself sideways, crashing through between rose bushes and earning herself a thousand tiny scratches, a grazing cut across her calf from the guard’s blade, and a sudden pain in her back as she landed on the hilt of her own sword. Back arched, she was fumbling to pull her weapon free from beneath her when a heavy boot landed hard on her twisted arm. Something tore in her shoulder, sending heat shooting down her arm. She screamed.

“Who’s there?” the magistrate demanded.

“Dunno!” shouted the guard, stomping again. She rolled, barely fast enough to avoid his foot fall, then latched onto his leg with her uninjured arm, pulling him off balance. If she hadn’t been biting her tongue so tightly she would have screamed again. Her shoulder seared with every movement. Unsteady, the guard stumbled and she propelled herself into her knees, slamming him to the ground and tripping upright. But before she could flee, a second guard caught her by a fistful of her tunic. Twist, kick out, grope for her sword— a blow to her head made her ears ring and she fell to her knees, empty-handed. She could see with blurry eyes that all three guards had converged on her. Her heart fell like a vase through slick fingers. It was a mistake to have come alone.

But then she heard a cry like the whoop of a wild dog, and a pirate slammed into her attackers. With a precious second of respite, she retrieved her sword, tucked her injured arm to her ribs, and joined the fray.

The other pirate was skilled enough to make up even for her injuries— that should have been her first clue to their identity. Their swords cut silver through the shadows of the garden. Back to back, they drove off two guards and disarmed the third, who surrendered. With a squeal of fear, the magistrate jumped back into the tunnel only to reappear a moment later, with Serena’s dagger at his throat.

Imogen turned to her companion and her heart clenched. Roden. Of all the pirates on this raid—

“Imogen!” Serena caught sight of her as she emerged from the tunnel with her captive. 

“Nice catch,” Imogen said, her lips curled at her surprise. 

She recovered quickly. “We found a few full coffers, but none of the poisons or perfumes you mentioned, my king.”

“I don’t know what—” the magistrate choked out, then gasping as Serena’s dagger dug into his neck.

“I suspect we’ll find them here.” She touched the nearest chest, running her thumb over the smooth carvings on the lid, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder and calf as she moved. As more pirates spilled out of the passage from the strongroom her pulse slowly returned to normal. “Well done, Serena. You may dispose of the magistrate as you see fit. Malina, I want you to organize the transport of valuables back to the ships. Alvi— burn the mansion down.”

The crew opened a barrel of palm wine and sacks of honeyed nuts and fragrant oranges, all looted from merchants earlier that night, as the trio of black-sailed ships left Gelyn’s smoldering coastline behind them. Spirits were high; it had been, all in all, an extraordinarily successful raid. The loot had been split between the three ships and stowed below deck, except for a few long strings of pearls that were draped around the neck of a pirate who had climbed the customs house to burn the Gelynian king’s banner flying there. 

Imogen stood apart from the building celebration, clutching a dented goblet of wine and studying the scene with unfocused eyes. Malina approached her with a lantern. “How are your injuries?”

“Cleaned and patched up.” She adjusted her injured arm, now wrapped in a sling, and then winced. “If it weren’t for that scumbag guard I would have called it a perfect raid. Were there any deaths?”

“Not that I know of,” Malina said, with the dispassionate tone that Imogen had grown to expect from her first mate. “Peter’s hands are full tending cuts and burns, but he’d be glad to treat yours if you need it.”

“I know enough about healing to handle a twisted shoulder and some scrapes,” Imogen said. “Do you know what Serena did with the magistrate?”

“I believe she left him unconscious but alive.”

Imogen exhaled. “Good. He posed no threat.”

“Then you think she did well with her mission?”

“For the most part,” Imogen said, then switched tacks. “But how do you think she did? Is she suited to being captain?”

“I fear I can’t be impartial, as her aunt,” Malina said drily.

“Fair. But I trust your opinion, and were she any other crew member seeking a ship of her own, I would seek your thoughts.”

Malina considered. “She’s a capable sailor. And she’s well-liked, too— but perhaps more liked than respected. She’s young.”

“That’s my fear, too. She’s bold in the moment, but she doesn’t think far enough ahead, and I worry that she wouldn’t know how to handle a challenge from her own sailors. Tomas, Erick, Marta, the other captains— they’ve been around you treacherous Avenian pirates long enough to be ready for all the tricks a crew might pull.”

“You’re a treacherous Avenian pirate yourself, your Highness,” Malina pointed out. “And as young as Serena.”

“Only on the outside,” Imogen said, wrinkling her nose in thought and ignoring Malina’s look of sympathy. “Hmm. When Lissa returns to Tarblade to deliver her baby, I think I’ll ask Erick to offer Serena her position as quartermaster on his ship.” 

“If you think that’s best,” Malina said.

On the deck below them, her crew had started toasts, which consisted of Alvi, who considered himself eloquent, climbing the rigging with a sloshing mug of wine and shouting to be heard over the raucous assembly. “Brothers and sisters, raise your glasses, to blood lost and riches won!” A thicket of mismatched cups shot up. “To glory, guts and gold!”

“Especially gold!” someone shouted back.

“To the devils who aided us and the saints that covered their eyes!”

Imogen tapped Malina’s elbow. “I fear he plans to go on for a while.”

“I’ll see if I can find a fiddler to distract us with a jig,” she murmured.

“To Avenia!” Alvi shouted.

“Get on with it!”

With one last valiant slosh of his mug, he lifted his chin to Imogen and shouted, “And to the pirate king!”

The assembled pirates cheered raggedly and tipped back their drinks. She smiled, leaning against the railing. 

Imogen had never expected to be good at being pirate king. All she had known when she went to Tarblade Bay to challenge Devlin was that pirates threatened her country, and Jaron hated her, and she was good with a sword, wicked good, and she was fifteen years old with a hurricane tearing through her chest, and she thought maybe she could buy Carthya some precious time. She hadn’t expected to become so fiercely fond of her crew, and she certainly hadn’t thought to be loved. Sometimes, at moments like this, she was overwhelmed with awe at the sheer improbability of it all.

Tears pricked at her eyes and she blinked them away quickly. This was no night for crying. True to her word, Malina had found a fiddler and the crowd had spread out to dance with varying degrees of enthusiasm and tipsiness. If she was being honest with herself, she knew what had set her to thinking about the past— Roden. She searched the deck until she found him perched on a crate towards the stern, apart from the crowd. He acknowledged her approach with a stiff nod.

“Why aren’t you drinking?” she asked, noting his empty hands. “On watch tonight?”

“I’m not a fan of Gelynian wine,” he said.

“Because it’s too weak?”

“Because it tastes like piss.”

That startled a laugh from her. “Fair.” She sipped from her goblet, and then made a face. “Ugh, you’re right.” She emptied it over the railing.

“Was that all you needed, your Highness?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“I haven’t thanked you for your help with the magistrate’s guards in Brusvik,” she said. “If you hadn’t been there I would have been worse off.”  _ Maybe dead, _ she didn’t say. He dipped his head, seeming uncomfortable with the attention. She pressed forward. “I was surprised that you, of all people, would have come to my aid.”

At that, he looked up, frowning. “Are you questioning my loyalty?”

Oh, that had touched a nerve. “Should I?”

“I swore fealty to the pirate king and I honored that oath today.”

“Why?” she asked, then amended as his expression twisted in offense. Prodding was one thing, but she didn’t need him angry, and he hadn’t done anything to earn harshness tonight. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Roden. I’m grateful for your help and I can’t deny that you’ve served well in the fleet for four years. I would have no reason to find fault with you— except that four years ago you led a mutiny against me, the day after I became king. You were ready to kill me then. Why not tonight?”

“You weren’t my king then.” She opened her mouth to contradict him but he lifted his hand. “You were king, I know. But you weren’t  _ my _ king yet. I thought it was best, for the pirates and for me, that I take the crown. I thought you would destroy the pirates.”

That was… reasonable. She leaned against the side of the ship, considering. “But you don’t think so now.”

“No.”

“What changed?”

“Jaron,” he said. The name made her stiffen. “In Farthenwood it seemed like you and Jaron cared for each other, and when he appeared at Tarblade I thought  _ she’ll let him go and the pirates will destroy her. _ But the ransoms you demanded for him and his coward of a captain— that was more than we’d earned or stolen in the last three years, all at once. Devlin would have killed him, and gotten nothing for it.” He shrugged. “He would’ve killed me too, if I mutinied against him.”

It occurred to her that this might be the longest conversation she had had with him. The idea of talking to him had always brought up too many memories, of Farthenwood and Carthya and the people she had left there— and she hadn’t trusted him, even though she let him live. But she was strangely impressed by his honesty. “I don’t like killing. Even when it’s necessary. It seems so— wasteful,” she admitted. “If you had died four years ago, I would have been in trouble tonight.”

“True.”

“Why were you in the garden?” she asked, curious.

“Same as you, I think. I was suspicious that there hadn’t been a word from the strongroom since the one exchange with Serena— no insults, bargains, or pleas for mercy. I thought such a rich man would’ve worried about a moment like this, and planned a way out. An escape hatch or secret tunnel.”

“Like in Farthenwood,” Imogen said.

He nodded. “Like in Farthenwood.”

The celebration was still in full swing, sloppy and loud, but Imogen found herself reluctant to rejoin it, or to break the moment of quiet understanding. It was comforting to feel at last that she could trust him, but even more than that, she was comforted by the sound of his Carthyan accent and the casual mentions of their past, the familiarity that his wariness couldn’t smother. She turned to watch the dark ocean. The crescent moon’s reflection swam splintered in their wake, and across the waves, the coast of Gelyn had vanished from sight. They were homeward bound, charting a course for Avenia.  _ Well, _ Imogen amended, glancing at Roden.  _ Not home for us. _


	5. a delicate dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drylliad, Carthya.

The next morning, I woke to a sharp rap on the door. I sat up, bleary-eyed, blinking at the stripes of golden sunlight that fell across my sheets. “May I come in?” called the knocker. Theo, my chamberlain.

“Mmm.” I knuckled my eyes. “Yeah, come in.” Last night I had spent most of the evening in the library with Tobias, Amarinda, and Mott, trading news and gossip. We’d meant to go to bed at a reasonable hour, but after seeing Mott off and walking Amarinda to her room, Tobias came up with an idea for a system of counterweights that could pull you up to the roof, the discussion of which quickly devolved into an argument over whether you could survive jumping off the castle roof (he said no, I said it depended on what you landed on), although he was so distracted by the logistics of his plan that I had almost gotten him up to the parapets before he realized what a terrible idea a live experiment would be. It was deep in the night when finally I crawled under my sheets.

The chamberlain’s brow furrowed when he saw me still in my night-gown. “Lady Amarinda and Master Tobias are waiting for you at breakfast.”

That jerked me back to the present. “Why so early?” Or had I overslept even more than I realized?

“Lady Amarinda says to remind you of your dance lesson after breakfast.”

Right. We had hired a Bymari tutor to teach us a traditional dance for the wedding. A pit opened in my stomach. Preparation for the wedding was starting in earnest this week. And even though I thought I was at peace with the idea of the marriage alliance, the idea of the wedding— of publicly swearing ourselves to each other— brought fresh waves of unease. Theo helped me with the finicky silver buttons of my doublet and I tried to finger-comb my hair into shape.

The bright side of an early breakfast meant that I wouldn’t have to deal with any regents— or my steward. Indeed, when I got to the dining hall, it was just Tobias and Amarinda sitting at the far end of the table.

“Why are you up so early, Tobias?” I asked, dropping into the seat next to him and grabbing an apple from the spread before them. “Is Amarinda dragging you along to the lesson?”

“I’m not  _ dragging _ , he  _ agreed, _ ” she said.

I pointed the apple at her. “A-ha! I was right!”

“Don’t point, it’s crude,” she said, amused. “And the tutor said to bring a third person so we could have two pairs dancing. You look tired, did you sleep alright?”

“Alright, though not enough. I had strange dreams.”

“Of what?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, and shrugged. “I’ve forgotten them now.” Forgotten all but the sensation of wind on my face, and a smell of salt. It wasn’t the first time I had dreamed of the sea.

_ “I _ had a dream that you pushed me off the parapet,” Tobias said, wrinkling his nose at me.

I grinned. “Did you survive?”

“How would I have survived?”

“If you landed in the moat—”

He clapped his hands over his ears. “We are not having this conversation again!”

I snatched half a honeyed roll off his plate and shoved it in my mouth before he could grab it back. “Whuffever oo fay.”

“I’m excited for the dance lesson today,” Amarinda said, voice raised pointedly. “What a nice, civilized diversion!” I covered my bulging mouth guiltily.

“It does sound like it’ll be a nice look into Bymari culture,” Tobias said, matching her theatrical tone as he turned his back on me. “Do you already know the dance, my lady?” I swallowed the mouthful and washed it down with Tobias’ water.

“No, it’s only done at weddings,” Amarinda said, and genuine excitement seeped into her voice. “I haven’t seen it since my cousin’s marriage, before I came to Carthya. By going through the steps together, the couple symbolizes the shared life ahead of them. It’s really beautiful.”

“Is it the same at every wedding?” Tobias asked. I was glad for his small talk to give me a chance to eat.

“There’s room for individual variations, but for the most part the dance is the same every time, and has been for generations. If I remember right, there’s a basic circling structure—”

As she explained, using her hands to mark out the movements, I hid behind Tobias and shoveled down porridge like a starving orphan. When she stood to demonstrate a particular spin I set down my now-empty bowl and stood too. “Shall we go?”

She dropped her arms. “Oh! You finished so fast!”

“I wouldn’t want us to be late,” I said. I had only gone a few steps when she cleared her throat. She hadn’t moved, but raised her eyebrows significantly. Tobias waggled his elbow. “Right!” I offered her my elbow, and she slipped her arm through it.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

“I’ll get it someday,” I promised, dipping my head to lean it against hers.

“I believe you,” she said, and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

A woman I assumed must be the dance tutor was waiting in the ballroom, framed in one of the long windows that lined the wall overlooking the garden. She turned as we entered, smiling and dropping into a gracious curtsy.

“Your Majesties,” she said.

“Not quite yet,” Amarinda said easily, taking her hands and kissing her cheeks. “But we look forward to that happy day. We’re so pleased you could come teach us.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said the tutor. “My name is Madam Citrine.”

“This is my betrothed, the ascendant King Jaron,” Amarinda said. “And our dear friend Tobias, who agreed to join us for the lesson.”

“Lovely,” said Madam Citrine. “Tobias, why don’t you dance with me, and the lord and lady can dance together. You start like so—”

I tried not to laugh as she guided him awkwardly into an open starting position, facing opposite directions with their right hands crossed between them, but the glare he shot me made it clear I hadn’t succeeded. When Amarinda and I tried to copy the steps, though, I did worse. Madam Citrine darted over to correct us.

“Lift your arm,” she said, nudging my elbow upward so I held Amarinda’s hand high between us. “And keep your eyes on each other. The purpose of the dance is to show that you’re well-matched, not that you’re brilliant dancers.”

“That’s a relief,” I said, meeting Amarinda’s bright gaze.

“Go through the starting step again,” Madam Citrine said. “Slowly. We’ll add music once you’re familiar with it.”

Step, step, step, switch— step, step, step, switch. We trod crescents around each other, Amarinda’s long hair swishing with every turn. She and Madam Citrine had the same color of hair, a rich red-brown, that shone in the full morning sunlight. I had seen Amarinda working a thick paste into her hair once, and learned that she imported a Bymari plant that women traditionally used to dye their hair, but had never considered what color her hair would be without it. Unbidden came the image of a girl with dark hair coming loose from a servant’s braid. I missed a step. Amarinda grabbed my arm, steadying me.

“I think you’ve mastered the basic step,” Madam Citrine said. “I’ll show you some of the variations, now. Master Tobias?”

“Are you alright?” Amarinda asked in a low voice. “You’re all flushed.”

“Just the dance,” I assured her, watching Tobias and Madam Citrine.

“Isn’t it lovely?”

It took me a second to realize she was referring to the dance. “Yes, it’s very nice.”

“I’m glad we’re learning it. I know it probably seems silly, but means a lot to me to be able to include traditions from home in the ceremony. Sometimes Bultain seems so far away.”

“It’s only five days by carriage,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Fewer by sea, if it were safe to sail down the Roving through Avenia.”

“And yet I’ve only visited once since I came here,” she said. At Madam Citrine’s signal, we resumed our positions, right hands raised between us. “Do you think we could go, after the coronation? I know you’ll have a lot of new duties as king, but—”

“Maybe once things settle down,” I said, passing her from hand to hand while she spun behind me. “I was meant to go to school in Bymar when I was ten. I mean, I guess it was good that I snuck off the ship before the pirates sunk it. But still. I’d like to go someday.”

“Imagine if you had lived in Bymar,” she said, smiling as we trod crescents around each other once more. “We could have met there, before I came to Drylliad to be with Darius.” She must have seen me wince at the name, because her smile faltered. “Do you think we would have been friends, then? If we met in Bymar?”

“If we weren’t betrothed?”

She nodded. I considered, gaze dropping. It was hard to imagine the world she described— a world in which we had met as children, where I was a foreigner in her country, where we could grow close like brother and sister, or maybe never grow close at all. I wanted to think that I would have recognized her good heart and level head without the pressure of the betrothal.

But I hesitated a moment too long, and her expression grew guarded. “I suppose it doesn’t make a difference now.”

“I hope we would have been,” I said earnestly.

“No, no, no,” said Madam Citrine, pulling us apart. “This should be a light dance, a  _ delicate _ dance. If you keep looking at your feet you’re going to trip around like little goats. You should be able to look into the other person’s eyes and know their next movement.”

“Of course,” I said, clapping my hands together. “We forgot to read each other’s minds.” Amarinda shot me a look of irritation.

“I’ll dance this round with you, your Majesty,” said Madam Citrine, thankfully pretending she hadn’t heard the jibe. The title was too deferential— I hadn’t yet been crowned— but I didn’t want to disrespect her again by calling attention to the mistake. “Master Tobias, will you practice with the lady?”

Madam Citrine extended her right hand, her face carefully neutral, and I took it, afraid of making further missteps. I tried to channel Amarinda’s diplomacy. “I’m so grateful you could come teach us this dance,” I said. “It’s a beautiful idea.”

“How lovely that you think so,” she said, softening into a smile. “It’s so thoughtful to incorporate Bymari customs into the ceremony for the sake of your lady.”

“Of course,” I said, surprised. “It’s her wedding.”

“But she will be queen of Carthya, not Bymar,” Madam Citrine said. “And many would expect her to abandon the marks of her upbringing.” She squeezed my fingers. “Remember to keep your eyes up. Notice, when I’m looking at your eyes, I can still see the shape of your body,” she said, gesturing at her front with her free hand. “And I can anticipate and match your motions. Do you see?”

“Sort of,” I said. My hand was sweaty in hers. I could hear Amarinda and Tobias chatting quietly, but the present task took all of my focus, and Madam Citrine’s attempts at small talk faded. With her patient guidance, and many repetitions, we eventually made our way through the steps without disaster.

“Excellent,” she said, releasing me. “I’ll call in the musicians and we can practice with accompaniment.” She swept out in a swirl of silks, and I turned to see Amarinda and Tobias still dancing.

They, too, had stopped talking, but for a different reason. Their gaze held such concentration I felt like I’d be able to touch it if I reached out, like a newly-twisted cord. And they moved like the dancing shuttles of a master weaver. Suddenly, I understood what the tutor had meant when she called this a delicate dance. Tobias, always a quick learner, had shed his earlier awkwardness with the steps. But it was more than that— their steps were imperfect, but even when one of them stumbled they held to the rhythm of whatever music played in their minds. Step, step, step, swish— and Amarinda’s hair flew out in a shining fan, and Tobias’ curls stuck to his temples with sweat, and both of them were flushed as they circled each other. I felt a strange twinge in my stomach. 

“You can take a break,” I said, accidentally too loud. “Madam Citrine’s finding the musicians.” At my words, Amarinda startled and dropped Tobias’ hands. He pulled back.

“Did you get the steps?” she asked, finding a wide-eyed smile.

“More or less,” I said. Tobias wiped his palms on his tunic. “It looks like you two figured it out, too.” That was good. If Amarinda knew it well, it would be easier for me, and Tobias could help me with my part if I needed it. I tried to shake the buzz from my head.

There was a heartbeat of uncertain silence. “Jaron, did you know that Amarinda’s never been to the square during the festival of Saint Acanthus?” Tobias said.

I gasped. “Say it isn’t so.”

“I’ve been to the fair in the morning,” she said.

“Didn’t we all go to the square at night, two years ago?” I asked.

“She was sick in the evening, we went with Lord Blackwell’s daughters.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that! Well, we should correct this immediately. The festival’s in a week— that’s plenty of time to clear our evening schedule.”

“What happens at the square?” Amarinda asked, pulling her hair into a twist over her shoulder, away from her neck.

“After the sun goes down, everyone brings flower crowns and bouquets and sweet-smelling garlands, and all the businesses and houses have little candles in the windows for Saint Acanthus. It looks like a fairy tale,” said Tobias.

Amarinda’s eyes fluttered shut, picturing the scene. I smiled. “The air smells like a garden, and everyone’s footsteps are soft because of the flowers underfoot,” I said. “I wasn’t supposed to go when I was little because it’s easy to get lost in the crowd, but I snuck out with Darius. Of course, we were found out because I fell asleep in his bed, both with our hair full of petals.”

“It does sound nice,” she said wistfully. “But would it be safe to go without an escort of guards?”

“It’ll be fine,” I assured her.

Further discussion was cut off by Madam Citrine’s return, trailed by a quartet of musicians. I only recognized two of the instruments, but when the players tested a few notes, tuning to each other, Amarinda’s hand went to her mouth. “I learned to play a lute just like that. I love the sound.”

Madam Citrine nudged us together. I took Amarinda’s hand, and we began to dance. The Bymari instruments flavored the tune in a way I’d never heard before, and the steps seemed to piece themselves together more easily. Over Amarinda’s shoulder, I was aware of Tobias and Madam Citrine watching, but I kept my eyes fixed on hers, even as she seemed to lose herself in the music. And with my full concentration, I remembered every turn and twirl, arms moving through a series of postures in time with hers. When we finished, hands tangled between us, shoulders moving with each breath, Madam Citrine applauded. Amarinda’s lips quivered.

“And then you finish by touching your foreheads together, and— well, doing as one does at a wedding,” said Madam Citrine.

What a strangely hesitant turn of phrase. As if a kiss was something unspeakably intimate. I leaned my forehead against Amarinda’s, and after a second, she pressed a kiss to my lips, then dropped her head against my shoulder, pulling me into a hug. “I miss Bymar,” she whispered. “I miss the music.”

My heart ached for her. I knew well what homesickness felt like. “I’m sorry.” It was all I could think of to say as I cradled her. She inhaled unevenly, then pulled away, wiping her eyes.

“I’m alright, though. It’ll pass.” It had too— we both knew that. As queen of Carthya, she would have too many duties here to travel frequently. But I swore that I would at least find her a Bymari lute to play.

“I think that’s enough practice for one day,” said Madam Citrine, courteously addressing Tobias to give us some privacy. “I’ll be back before the wedding for one more lesson, but remind the lord and lady to practice.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised. I tucked a loose strand of Amarinda’s chestnut hair behind her ear.

“It was wonderful to have you, too, Master Tobias,” Madam Citrine said. “You did quite well. If you fall in love with someone from Bymar, you’ll be all set.”

He laughed, sounding strained. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“You have to prepare for every eventuality.” I turned to them with a smile. “Thank you again, Madam Citrine.”

“It was an honor,” she said, curtsying. She left, and the musicians filed out after, but their music seemed to linger, caught in the sky-painted corners of the ceiling. Amarinda tapped my elbow, and I offered it to her, and arm in arm we left the echoing ballroom.

**Author's Note:**

> drop kudos and a comment, or come talk to me on tumblr at @piratekingimogen! :)


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